The first explosion didn't come from the penthouse. It rose from forty floors below a dull, bone-jarring vibration that rattled the crystal decanters on Lucian's bar. Then came the gunfire. Suppressed, professional, rapid.
"Get down!"
Lucian's hand slammed onto my shoulder before I could process what was happening, forcing me toward the reinforced concrete floor of the medical suite. I hit it hard, my palms scraping against the cold surface.
He didn't look like a CEO anymore. The polished mask had evaporated right before my eyes, replaced by something cold and lethal, the man who had once led the Hells Angels through the bloodiest nights of the Malibu turf wars. He pulled a compact submachine gun from a hidden compartment beneath the exam table, his movements a blur of practiced muscle
